17.

We are back to building bulwarks against the heat. My morning prayers consist of asking again for my father’s leathery skin. My dreams are lonely affairs in which I wander looking for the broken path to the waking world, the one with you, the dogs, the damned cat, this air thick with water it will not let go.

18.

The heart is bilge filling with opaque water. This is a crank grease baptism under one more apocalyptic sun. Read the skies for falling stars. We paint the pumps and hope. This hot house haze air will not break itself. Prime the pump. This goghead doesn’t move itself.